A Little to the Right
by Zana Zira
Summary: Pre-series, teen!chesters. Keeping secrets is a bad thing, especially in regards to one's health. When Sam decides not to tell Dean he isn't feeling well before a day of training, the outcome will not be pleasant. Sick/Appendicitis!Sam, Worried/Caring!Dean. Written for an LJ prompt. Sam is 15, Dean is 19.


**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.**

**A/N: This was written for a prompt on LiveJournal. The prompt was as follows:**

_**"How about teenchesters?**_

_**Sam isn't feeling good, but of course he won't tell Dean and especially not Dad! But then thanks to Winchester luck, it can only get worse to the point where he won't be able to hide it anymore. And Dean's mad at him for not telling, but he's also an amazing mother hen, by chance."**_

* * *

><p>"Sammy! Rise and shine bro, you're gonna be late," Dean called from somewhere out in the hallway, eliciting a slight stirring and a groan from the shaggy-haired fifteen-year-old lump still lying in bed. "Saaaaaam," he sing-songed in his most annoying voice when his brother made no other move to get up. "Don't make me get the ice water again."<p>

That had the desired effect; Sam was up and out of bed like a shot, cursing when he caught a glimpse of his digital alarm clock and realized he was running fifteen minutes late for school.

"Aww, Dean!" he whined as he fumbled around in the closet, nearly falling over as he tried to simultaneously put on a shirt and hop around with only one leg in his pants. "Why'd you let me sleep so late? And why are you up so early anyway? You don't go to school anymore." The older Winchester hadn't been back to the high school since last year, when he dropped out just before graduation.

Dean shrugged, cool and nonchalant as ever. He wanted to laugh at the way Sam's bedhead was sticking out in all directions, but he figured that would only piss him off, so he held it back.

"I didn't think you'd need me to wake you up; usually you're awake way before school. And Dad's leaving for a hunt this weekend, so I'm helping him get ready."

"Ah, okay. Well, gotta go, bye!" Sam said hurriedly, tugging on his shoes and snagging his backpack as he rushed for the door.

"Wait, Sam, brush your –"

SLAM!

"– hair first…" he finished lamely, shaking his head and chuckling as he imagined Sam's face when he caught his reflection later. Poor kid. He caught sight of the dry toothbrush still sitting on Sam's side of the sink and grimaced. "Dude, you forgot to brush your teeth, too? Gross."

Right after he shut off the lamp in Sam's room and closed the door, John met him in the hallway, weapons bag slung over his shoulder and the expression on his face all business.

"I'm going, Dean. It should be about a week until I get back. Look after your brother while I'm gone."

"I always do."

John frowned a bit.

"Actually, that reminds me of something I've been meaning to tell you. I want you to make sure Sam gets his training done while I'm gone, understand? I know you like to take it easy on him, but he's not a little kid anymore, and he's not trying as hard as he should when I train him because of the way you let him slack off."

"Dad, that isn't –"

"I'm not finished," John snapped. "You're spoiling him, Dean, and it's gonna get him killed one of these days if you don't cut it out. I expect you to treat him like a real hunter, which means you have to make him run as many miles as you do, expect him to shoot as well as you do, and not hold back when you two spar. He's tough enough to deal with a few bumps and bruises. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, Sir," Dean answered softly.

John nodded and patted his shoulder. "See you in a week, son."

"See ya, Dad…"

Once John had departed, slamming the front door behind him, Dean walked over to the ratty old armchair in front of the TV and lowered himself into it so he could massage his suddenly throbbing temples. He hated the idea that he was going to have to be as tough on Sam as Dad was. He always tried as hard as he could to avoid really pushing his brother into training; Sam hated it, Dean knew that, and he didn't want to be the one forcing his brother to fight when he knew for a fact Sam wasn't an even match for him yet. Sam was small for his age, and Dean was way too strong for him even _without_ going full strength.

But Dad's orders were absolute. He would know if Dean hadn't been doing his job, and the consequences would be hell for both of them.

Sighing, Dean laid his head back and stared at the ceiling. Who could say? Maybe Dad's way of training might actually do Sam some good. He'd just have to wait until after his brother got out of school to see.

* * *

><p>When Sam got home from school that evening after staying late for a study group, Dean was just putting supper on the table for both of them. He knew Sam's routine like clockwork, and he knew that his brother tended to just pick at the PB&amp;J sandwiches that were all the two of them had ever been able to afford at school; this meant that by the time Sam got home in the evenings he was about as ravenous as a Wendigo. So Dean did his best to make sure his beanstalk of a brother had something to eat as soon as he came through the door – in an attempt to spare his own handsome hide from cannibalism, of course, not because he was mothering Sam or anything.<p>

Tonight, though, Sam came in so quietly that Dean barely heard the door open – a normal person never would have – and trudged slowly to the kitchen, dropping his bookbag on the floor and slumping down into one of the splintery kitchen chairs with a sigh. Dean's brows knitted together in confusion at the angsty mood his brother appeared to be in, and he placed a heaping plate of spaghetti and meat sauce in front of Sam, jokingly drawing his hand back like he expected him to try and eat it.

But Sam just sat there, closing his eyes and swallowing before looking off to the side at something out in the dark that Dean obviously couldn't see.

"Sam? Somethin' wrong?" Dean asked, sitting down at the other side of the table and digging into his own dinner. "You love spaghetti, and I even put oregano in it like you like it. Usually you'd be inhaling the stuff by now."

"Huh? No, I… No. Nothing's wrong," Sam answered distractedly, shaking his head quickly and taking such a large bite of the spaghetti that he almost choked trying to swallow it.

"Whoa, easy," Dean said as he came over and patted him on the back, handing him his glass of water to help wash the noodles down. "I didn't mean you should literally inhale it, dude. Slow down."

"Sorry. I'm just really tired tonight," Sam said quietly once he'd managed to stop coughing. "And I'm not that hungry, to be honest. Would you mind if I just wrap this up and put it in the fridge for tomorrow? I wanna get some homework done and head to bed early."

"Oh, uh, yeah. Okay. You go ahead and hit the books and I'll take care of your food."

"And by 'take care of' I hope you don't mean 'eat,'" Sam said with a tiny smile, standing up from the table and pushing his chair in with a barely audible grunt that Dean almost missed. And was it just his imagination, or was Sam walking a little stiffly too?

"Hey, no promises, Geekboy. You don't eat your dinner at dinnertime, I can't guarantee it'll survive to see another day." He fell silent for a moment, weighing his options as he considered the fact that John had wanted them to start training again immediately after dinner. Ah, what the hell? Sam was tired, and so was Dean. One more day couldn't hurt. "Get some rest, okay? Dad wants us to train like crazy this weekend, and I'm waking you up at five so we can run before it gets hot."

Sam groaned. "Seriously? What ever happened to just sleeping on Saturdays?"

For some reason the fact that Sam was still complaining despite already getting a break tweaked a nerve, and Dean scowled at his brother.

"People will die if we aren't good and ready to protect them, Sam. That's a little more important than Saturday morning cartoons, don't you think? I know you're a little tired, but so am I. Quit whining about it, for God's sake!"

Sam's eyes widened, and he blinked in surprise at his brother's stormy expression. Usually it was Dad snapping at him, not Dean. And he wasn't in any way interested in fighting with his older brother like this.

"Right, I just meant… Never mind, it's not important. 'Night, Dean."

"Sammy, wait," Dean started when he saw his little brother turn on his heel and head toward his bedroom. But Sam was already gone, speed-walking to their room and slamming the door so fast Dean was surprised he didn't leave a trail of flames. "Ah, dammit." He stared at the two plates of spaghetti slowly cooling on the table, and suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite either.

Sighing in resignation, he picked up both dishes and wrapped them in plastic, sliding them into the rusted refrigerator for tomorrow's lunch. Once he'd cleaned up the rest of the dishes – that was usually Sam's job, but he wasn't about to drag Sam out here right now just for that – he took a quick shower and slipped into a pair of sleep pants, stepping into their shared bedroom quietly. It turned out to be a good thing, because when he opened the door he saw that Sam was asleep on his bed, his American History textbook lying open on his chest while he snored softly.

Smiling and shaking his head, Dean picked up the book, slipping a scrap of paper from Sam's open backpack into it to mark the page and laying it on the dresser. Sam shivered a little, and Dean pulled the comforter up to his chin, chuckling when he snuggled into it with a sleepy murmur of "Exorcizamus te, omnis… omn… mmm…" before drifting off again. Exhausted after his own long day at work, Dean gratefully crawled into his bed, yanking the covers up over his head with a groan.

He was asleep before he'd even had time to realize it.

* * *

><p>"Sammy, come on, get up!" Dean called bright and early the next morning.<p>

Sam moaned and rolled over in bed, curling up tighter in the comforter and trying to get rid of the cold feeling in his skin. He had been feeling increasingly unwell since yesterday afternoon, with a headache, chills, and a persistent ache in his belly that made him feel nauseous and shaky. He hadn't even managed to finish any homework before passing out, and in the middle of the night he had finally had to bolt from his bed to empty the almost nonexistent contents of his stomach into the filthy toilet, heaving and coughing until nothing was left but bile and there were tears of exertion and pain running down his face. It had passed eventually, but ever since then the ache in his gut had been much, much worse.

He didn't want to tell Dean any of this, though. He hadn't said anything yesterday, and it was clear that that was the right move after the way his brother had snapped at him. If even Dean thought he was complaining too much, then he really must be. No way he'd get any sympathy over a little tummy ache now. But damn, it was really starting to hurt. Maybe if he just ignored his brother long enough, he'd go away and let Sam sleep…

No such luck. With a sudden rush of air that made him gasp at the chill, the covers were yanked off of him, almost dumping him into the floor before he could untangle himself from them. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he glared at his brother, blinking through tired eyes at the older hunter and trying not to look as drowsy as he felt.

"Dean, what the hell?!"

"I told you we were training at five today, Sam. It's five-o-five. Now get your ass up! I wanna see you dressed and finished with breakfast in fifteen minutes."

Great. It seemed Dean was channeling Dad this morning. Sam cursed his brother's blind loyalty to their father under his breath and swung his legs out of bed, almost falling over when his sense of balance decided it suddenly wanted to desert him. Shrugging off Dean's instant concern, he grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and put them on as quickly as possible before slipping on his tennis shoes, not bothering to fix his hair since their running and sparring was bound to mess it up again anyway. Besides, once they were done he planned on taking a shower and falling back into bed for the rest of the day.

Once he'd gotten dressed and forced himself to swallow a whole one-and-a-half Pop Tarts and a glass of juice, he made his way outside, where Dean was leaning against a tree waiting for him. His older brother smirked, and Sam could already tell this wasn't going to be fun. Once Dean got that competitive gleam in his eye, it usually meant Sam was going to have to try twice as hard to keep up with him – and today he wasn't sure he had half the usual effort in him, let alone double.

"About time, Princess," Dean chided, walking over and ruffling his brother's hair, which Sam answered with an annoyed huff. "I thought you'd fallen asleep on the table or something."

"Are we gonna train or what?"

"Jeez, bitchy, what crawled up your ass this morning?"

"Let's just go, okay? Please?" Sam asked, too tired to even bother dignifying that with an answer.

"Alright then, you asked for it. We'll each do ten laps around the block in opposite directions, and then we'll meet back here. And keep up with me – no slowing down and resting just 'cause you think I won't see."

Dean took off running, and Sam hastily did the same, his entire body throbbing in time with his feet as he stretched his much shorter legs in an attempt to match the pace he knew his brother was keeping.

"_Well, it's official,_" he thought as they finished the first lap right on time and he noticed he was already winded. "_I'm in Hell._"

* * *

><p>Dean wasn't sure what was wrong with Sam today, but the kid was really off his game. He'd finished the ten laps, but only barely, and it took him several minutes to catch his breath after they were done. He'd also turned down the water Dean tried to offer when he saw how sweaty and red his face was, and for a minute he'd actually looked a little green.<p>

Now that Sam had caught his breath, though, it was time for them to spar. Dean was planning on fighting hard, but contrary to what John said he didn't want to go full strength today. He wasn't sure exactly why, but something was telling him Sam wasn't up for it now. Keeping this plan to himself, the two of them squared off, Sam looking a little dazed but still annoyed and determined all the same. Dean gave his best cocky smile, trying to bait Sam a little before they even started.

"Winner gets the first shower?" he asked lightly, surprised when Sam snorted and looked away.

"Why bother asking? You're so much bigger than I am that we both know it'll be you."

"Well with an attitude like that it will," Dean countered, frustrated with whatever had Sam so snippy this morning. "You gonna just roll over and die when you're up against a werewolf, too? After all, it _is_ bigger than you."

"Screw off."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, _Dad_. I know you think his orders are more important than the Ten Commandments, but that doesn't mean you have to talk to me the way he does."

"Yeah? Well maybe I ought to more often. Obviously you aren't listening to him if I'm having to tell you the same stuff he's already said."

Sam's nostrils flared, his eyes widening in fury as he clenched his fists at his sides; to be honest, Dean wasn't in much better control of himself at the moment. So when Sam spat, "Are we gonna fight or what?" it was on in a heartbeat.

The two of them traded punches and kicks back and forth in rapid succession, each scrabbling to knock the other's feet out from under him or hit a disabling target like the knees. Sam guarded his upper body tightly, only striking out with a punch or kick when he knew Dean wouldn't be able to counterstrike in time. The older Winchester didn't notice his unusual protective stance, or the way he flinched every time he lifted his right leg for a kick or saw Dean trying to aim one at him. He was too focused on the fight to focus on Sam.

Dean blocked nearly every punch and kick Sam threw at him, too furious with the way his brother had just spoken to him to give him any headway like he would usually do. Did he really not understand how much Dean was working to help him disobey some of Dad's orders? Obviously not, if the ungrateful brat was actually comparing him to John.

That thought set the spark of anger burning in his chest on fire, and the second he noticed Sam drop his guard he kicked out hard, catching his brother in the stomach with his heel in an attempt to knock the wind out of him.

What he didn't expect was what actually happened. Sam's face lost every trace of color, his eyes widening in shock, and then he dropped to his knees with a strangled grunt, doubling over with a moan before he started retching loudly into the dirt.

Dean's desire to fight immediately came to a halt, and it took him only a few seconds before he snapped out of his initial shock and knelt down beside Sam, trying to figure out why his brother was reacting like this to a kick that hadn't even been delivered at full power. By that time, the younger boy was curled up in a ball on his side, arms held tightly across his abdomen as pained sobs slipped out from between his gritted teeth.

"Sammy, hey, what's wrong?" Dean asked, barely managing to keep the panic out of his voice when Sam gagged and coughed again. Had he really hit him that hard? "Hey bud, talk to me, come on."

Sam blinked dazedly up at him and then squeezed his eyes shut again, moaning and curling even tighter around his hands. "Hurts, Dee, it hurts…"

"What hurts? Where?" Sam shook his head when Dean tried to move his arms away, and the older Winchester bit his lip to try and keep calm. "Sammy, I need you to uncurl so I can see where you're hurt, okay? Just for a minute."

Sam nodded and reluctantly straightened out, fingernails digging into the dirt as he panted through the agony like a woman in labor. Normally Dean would have teased him for that, but when he pulled up Sam's shirt and saw the way the right side of his belly was pink and swollen, his heart dropped.

Gingerly, he touched Sam's belly with his fingertips, pressing ever so slightly into the feverishly-hot skin to see if he would notice. The instant he released the pressure Sam cried out in pain, grabbing onto Dean's hand as tightly as he could while new tears leaked from his eyes.

"Please, Dean, stop…" he begged, his watery, pain-filled eyes trained on his brother. "I'm sorry I made you mad, I'm sorry, please…"

Now trying not to cry himself after hearing the pleading in those words – Sam was terrified, truly terrified that his own brother was going to hurt him on purpose – Dean leaned down and scooped him up into his arms, jogging toward the Impala and trying not to jostle him any more than necessary. This was bad, hospital bad, call-Dad-and-have-him-come-home-from-a-hunt bad. And it was Dean's fault.

"I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry," he repeated over and over as he sped off toward the hospital as quickly as the Impala could take them. Sam was lying on his side in the front seat, head in Dean's lap and hands fisted in his leather jacket as he shivered and moaned with every crack in the road they drove over. "It's gonna be okay, little brother, I promise. You're gonna be okay."

He ran a hand through Sam's shaggy hair, trying to comfort him the only way he knew how and realizing it wasn't any use. Nothing he could do would take this pain away, no whiskey or stitches or gauze bandages. For the first time in a long time, Dean was completely and totally useless when it came to looking after Sammy. And for one of the few times in his life, when Dean saw the little blue-and-white letter H and a sign that said it was two miles away, he lifted his head and thanked God.

* * *

><p>The first thing Sam noticed when he woke up was that something was beeping in his ear, and he wanted it to stop. He still had a little bit of a headache, although he was still too deeply sedated to remember what a headache was called yet, and his throat was dry when he unconsciously tried to swallow. After a few more minutes of fantasizing about obliterating whatever was making that awful beeping, he finally decided to open his eyes. It was harder than he thought – they felt like they were weighed down with dumbbells – but after a few minutes, or maybe hours, he got his eyelids to rise.<p>

The first thing he saw when his vision cleared was exactly what he expected to see: a heart monitor with a lead attached to his finger, the source of the noise. After a few seconds, he recognized the familiar cheap white sheets and antiseptic smell that had become second-nature to him after being in the hospital with an injured Dean or John so many times. But wait. If he was the one in the bed this time, where was –

"Sammy?"

Ah, there.

"Sammy? You awake?"

"Mmhmm," he mumbled, trying to get his thoughts organized enough to form actual words. "Deeeean?"

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me," Dean said with a tired smile. "How you feelin'?"

"Floaty. And… dry."

Somehow Dean managed to translate that accurately into "high as a kite" and "my mouth is dry," and he had a straw up against Sam's lips before the younger Winchester could say another word. Sam drank gratefully, whining softly when Dean pulled it away after a few sips, and the older boy chuckled.

"I'll get you more in a minute if that stays down," Dean reassured him. "You just had surgery, so you don't wanna have too much on your stomach yet."

"S'rg'ry?" Sam mumbled. "Why?"

"Your, ah, your appendix ruptured, Sammy." Had Sam been more lucid, he would have taken note of the way Dean suddenly wouldn't look anywhere but the floor. "The doc said you must've had appendicitis for a couple of days, and when I accidentally hit it…" He trailed off, unable to say it. "They said they got it all cleaned out okay, so you shouldn't get an infection, but they're putting you on some antibiotics just in case."

"Oh. Huh." Sam was already drifting off again, despite the fact that he knew what Dean was saying was important. "M'sleepy…"

Dean laughed softly. "It's okay, Sam. Go to sleep. We'll talk later."

"…kay…"

He was out again before Dean could even give him more morphine.

The next time Sam woke, he was much more alert, and he actually understood all of what Dean told him this time.

"So is Dad coming?" he asked, taking a few cautious sips of water from the paper cup on the table. Dean had said the nurses would let him eat soon if he kept the water down for at least fifteen minutes, and he really hoped he would because not eating much of anything for the last two days was really starting to wear thin.

"Yeah, he said he'll be here by morning." Dean still wasn't looking at Sam, and now that the younger Winchester wasn't completely stoned it was really starting to bother him.

"Dean –"

"Hey, uh, why don't I go get some foods you like while you're waiting for the doc to clear you for eating? The food here sucks, and you wouldn't want it making you sick, right?"

Sam sighed, choosing not to call Dean out on the obvious avoidance tactic yet.

"Yeah, sure."

Dean was out of the room almost instantaneously, and for the next half an hour Sam stared boredly at the static-filled television on the wall, plucking a loose string on his hospital gown while he watched some teen drama that was way too complicated for him to understand while on pain meds.

By the time Dean came back, the doctor had already been in to visit and told Sam he should be ready for some light foods, which he was free to call in from the cafeteria whenever he wanted. Just the thought had made his stomach growl, and when his brother came into the room carrying applesauce and some hot tomato-and-rice soup, Sam honestly thought he might jump out of bed and hug him. He eagerly, but slowly, ate the soup first, sighing with pleasure at the Winchester sick-day staple. Dean smiled but said nothing the entire time, just getting up now and again to adjust his pillows or get him more water, and it was then that Sam realized exactly what was going on.

"Dean," he said firmly, putting his bowl down on the table so he wouldn't have to worry about spilling it.

"What? You need more soup? You feel sick?"

"No, Dean, just be quiet for a minute, okay?"

Dean blinked and then pressed his lips together.

"Okay. You've been acting weird ever since I woke up here. So what's wrong? It's not like this is your fault –" It was barely noticeable, but at that instant he saw Dean flinch, and realization hit him like a ton of bricks. "Oh my God. You really do think this is on you."

"I should've been paying attention, Sammy. You were sick for almost two days, and I didn't notice. I made you run, and spar, I… I kicked you in your damn appendix and ruptured it the rest of the way! How is this _not_ my fault?"

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"You can't be serious. Dean, it's a freaking appendix. Tons of people's appendixes get infected and rupture all the time for _no reason_ at all. Mine was already infected, and I was already sick; it was just a matter of time until it burst and we ended up exactly where we were before. It is not. Because. Of you. Okay?"

Dean nodded, still not looking entirely convinced.

"Besides, would you rather it happened in the car while we were on the way to a hunt? Do you honestly think Dad would've stopped the car and taken me to a doctor when I told him my stomach hurt?"

Dean snorted and finally cracked a smile.

"Considering he had me drive us all the way from Texas to Maine that time he had food poisoning and just kept a puke bucket in his lap the whole way instead of stopping, I'd say no."

"Exactly. So look on the bright side: now I've got my appendix out, we don't have to get back on the road for at least a few days, and now I'll never get it again. I should be thanking you for speeding it along."

Sam scooted over on the bed when he noticed Dean approaching him, allowing his brother to clamber up onto the mattress so Sam could lean against his warmer body as he started to feel drowsy again.

"You have a messed-up sense of 'the bright side,' you know that?" Dean asked, throwing an arm around Sam's shoulders and guiding him down onto his back, never moving far enough away that Sam had to detach from his side.

"Well gee, I wonder where I get that from," Sam muttered, closing his eyes with a small yawn.

Dean settled down beside him, waiting until he could hear his brother's breaths even out into sleep before adjusting his position a little and cuddling down under the blanket himself.

"We're a weird bunch, aren't we Sammy…"

But he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
